Searching for Memories
by Mari L. Anderson
Summary: I woke up on a battlefield, not knowing my own name. Will I find the person I was, or is he lost forever?


_Hello Everyone! This is finally the first chapter of the sequel to the my story A Silver Oakleaf. Heads up, if you haven't read that story, this one will make a lot more sense if you do. Comments and critiques are welcome._ _Enjoy!_

I suppose this story begins like all should; with a hot cup of coffee warming my hands. Followed shortly by a snowy quill and crackling parchment beneath my fingers. Like every fortress, Castle Araluen has its hidey-holes and broom closets. Places where one can write undisturbed and unnoticed. Even as I pen this, I berate myself for not having the guts to just tell Maia what happened and what I think of her. But on the other hand, she won't tell me what she did after the battle of Hackham Heath where her father died. She rarely gives any explanation for her actions. Maybe there are truly some things better left unknown, which is why she should never read this, and I will never read her confession. It would be better for both of us just to live in the present, but I don't feel like I can until I truly understand what happened to me four and a half years ago.

The only clear memory I have before the battle is the first day I met Maia. I didn't even know her name then. She heralded herself with three arrows. It was the first time I'd ever stepped onto the archery field at Brougham fief, taking my father's place with the levee of archers. Anger rankled in my chest because my father should have been the teacher, but the baron favored a man named Errol Clessy. He irked me to the point of distraction, and his form was, to put it delicately, not anything like my father taught me. I hoped if I just ignored him long enough, he would leave me alone.

When he stormed over to me for the umteenth time that afternoon, an arrow hissed over his shoulder. He reeled away and two more arrows appeared in the center of the target like magic. And there she came, fearlessly, facing down Clessy's anger, her face a mask. She was pretty, so I missed what she said first. The aura of command that she projected, seemed to put me under a spell. The next moment, she was talking to me, telling me to show her how I shoot. Surprised, I obeyed. The way she commented on my form reminded me of my father. When I fired the arrow, it was better than all my other shots that day. Clessy was the apoplectic with rage. He menaced her and was about to throw her off the field. I was a few seconds away from stepping between them, no matter the consequences to me, but her response, "Is that how you speak to a superior in rank?", stopped Clessy and me in our tracks. Her offense was its own defence. And her closing shot, "Mr. Clessy, it is your choice whether you want to watch or participate in the rest of practice," showed everyone she was an adept archer with more than the bow. She took over so fast it made all of our heads spin. From that day forward, the slight teenage girl was the teacher of about a hundred archers.

Other than that, the months leading up to the battle of Hackham Heath are fuzzy at best, and non-existent at worst. I will probably never remember the bravery in battle that earned me the place as a ranger's apprentice and robbed me of my memory. My master Sam said later that I caught up a spear and held off a party of Wargals that breached the front line long enough for most of the other archers to escape. I took a club upside the head and was left for dead. I can't decide which is stranger, imagining that I did such a brave thing, or not remembering doing it.

A day and a half after the battle, I simply woke up. I couldn't figure out where I was. The stench of old blood and rotting flesh assaulted my nostrils. It felt like an entire village had held a festive dance on my skull, and my mouth was parched, my tongue swollen with thirst. I staggered to me feet, nearly blacked out, and lurched toward the line of tents where the main camp was before the battle. The twisted bodies of the unburied fallen sprawled across my path and seemed to my unbalanced mind to reach out to trip me as I passed. A few men, two of whom sported bandages, played dice by the edge of camp. They nearly jumped out of their skins when they saw me. I must have looked like death in human form. I tried to ask for water but the words came out only as a choked moan. One of the men drew scrambled for his sword and drew it. "No!" I croaked, "Wait. I don't mean harm."

"Who are you?" he challenged. I was about to answer when I saw the water bucket. Tottering, I fell to my knees before it and began to drink as fast as I could. One of the men ran off to try and find out what they should do with me, while the others watched me in fearful puzzlement. My thirst slaked for the moment, I looked at them and tried to stand or at least thank them, but the effort, coupled with the influx of water was too great a shock to my body and I tumbled into unconsciousness once more.


End file.
